A horse at a crossroads

It did not therefore emit a wild neighing sound, it was just under the instructions of the master, patter along the flow of people, silently moving forward, regardless of, behind it, is a pile of excrement still emitting heat, or the master's resentful stare, or, I such an irrelevant passer-by, with painful sympathy.

I think of a poet who lived on the prairie, and he would often get drunk outside, and then be carried slowly home on his horse. Every time, those of us who live in the city worry that he's going to get lost on horseback. However, he would always be returned safely by the horse to the fenced yard covered with petunias.

We all praised his horse as a good horse who understood human nature, but he shook his head and said that a horse growing in the grassland has the same wisdom as a man. It's just that they don't show off endlessly, or self-righteously, like people do. Only when they are running, can people understand the kind of innate bravery and wildness. Once banished to a city or a narrow horse pen, they would rather remain silent than bring up the aura of the past, over and over again, as people do. They are the warriors of the prairie, and if far from home, they are the most sincere troubadour poets.

Does the horse at the crossing used as a cow have a past time in his dream? Will it miss its brothers on the prairie, envy those fiery horses that can die in battle? Even if, on the set of a film, cunning humans are tricked into dying for a false war recorded by the camera.

I think it will, no matter how much its owner ignores it, equating it with all tools without dreams. It in the shabby stable, will dream of that flying years, dream of boundless grassland, delicious and soft water grass, dream of truly understand its herdsmen. Just like me, a child from the countryside, dreaming of rice, farmland, cooking smoke, or the mother's call.

Because it and I are both poets in this city who have lost their homes and are always looking for their homes.

Once I went to the store, I saw a cup of tea, and put a new kind of equipment inside. It is like an old oil ladle, but with a lid; Turn the lid, you can pour the tea into it, after closing, into the cup, then the tea will not float and sink, the water in the cup, like a bottle of golden brown drinks, you just need to rest assured to drink, do not worry about the tea stem or leaves, will as usual, drink into the mouth; Of course, there is no need to have the troubles of the past, you need to turn left and right in the floating circle of tea, in order to find a small empty space at the mouth of the cup, and drink the fragrant tea. Tea leaves in the dark box, no matter how fermented, expanded, stretched, can not escape, clog your mouth. You can be absorbed in reading a newspaper, watching a movie too good to distract you, or enjoying the fun of debating with others, and easily pick up the tea cup beside you, like a clear drink, and drink half of it. There is a fragrance in your teeth, but there is no source of this fragrance to disturb your mind.

The lady in the shop strongly recommended, said that office workers, with such a cup, convenient, neither need to clean the residual tea, nor bother the mouth of the tea stalk, where to vomit, even the cup, cleaning up, do not take time. I was so excited, I bought one. Then began to like jasmine tea, carefully into the camera obscura, and then into the cup, began to pour boiling water. I was accustomed to flushing the first water after reading a page of text, but I soon realized that for such a special cup, the first time no longer seemed superfluous, since the tea was no longer scattered, then the dust attached to it was also inescapable in the dark box. I dashed into the boiling water again, and then leaned on the sofa with the pillow in my arms and read a book at leisure.

After turning a few pages, I put down the book, picked up the cup, opened the lid, subconsciously closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. The fragrance of jasmine, which I like, slowly flowed over and penetrated my lungs first. But I don't know why, the aroma, seems to be a little light, like something, to block, floating out; The smoke, symbolically, skimmed over the tip of the nose and left. Open my eyes, turn up my lips, blow breathlessly, blow for a moment, only to remember that there is no tea in the cup, let alone blooming jasmine, I just need to drink white water, swallow it, it can be. The only difference is that in the white water, you add light green, and you can't find the source of the flowers. A new kind of drink, because of this small camera obscura, suddenly opened.

However, when I finished drinking cup after cup of tea, when I finished turning over the most wonderful part of a book, when I stretched out, looking at the warm sunshine projected in the autumn, recalling every detail, I suddenly found that this quiet afternoon, it seems to be missing something, so that the quiet flowing time, intermittently, no longer the smooth of the past. But what is it, I can not say clearly, feel like a dense gas, or spread out the lotus leaves, I stand on it, let the soul fly.

When I got up lazily and went to pour tea, I opened the camera obscura and saw the tea leaves, jasmine and leaf stalks curled up in them. They huddled together in a small corner, and no longer had the elegant posture of trying to spread out in the past. And the white jasmine, before it even had time to bloom, was wrapped in a dead mass. What I see is no longer the arbitrary flower and leaf, no longer the flower of life, but a dark, abandoned cluster without flight. They shriveled away in the dark box without showing their life to the tea drinkers.

I suddenly feel sad, Jasmine reading with me, for there is no space for rebirth of tea, but also for this period of no spiritual afternoon time.

I still remember those tea tasting days, with my family, or friends, will be the best tea, cup by cup into the cup one by one, and then into the boiling hot water on the stove, and then in the chat, waiting for the tea to bloom, flowers in full bloom. Sometimes we put roses or chrysanthemums in the tea, and they intertwine with the tea and rise in the cup, like a warm love, slowly opening. My family and I like to count the leaves in our cups, and stubbornly believe that when there is a standing stem in the cup, there will be relatives to visit our house in the near future. We will also compete to see who the flowers in the cup are more enchanting, or who has a piece of tea in the cup that is intact and shaped like a boat, which can bring you good luck. We would also enthusiastically flock to friends' homes on weekends to borrow their equipment and drink tedious kung fu tea. Teacups, teapots, are made of depressed purple sand, when holding, there is an earthy texture. The host has infinite patience, will a pot of tea, from the teapot into the tea bowl, and then from the tea bowl into the small tea ou, the guests sitting around, with thumb and index finger, pick up one of them, immersed in the thirsty heart.

I always miss such a leisurely period of time, they with tea fragrance, with blooming flowers, leisurely through our work, material desire blocked the time.

Tasting tea is one of the most urgent things, only a little slow down, we want to be safe, quiet, quiet and beautiful, will be like that cup of tea, with joy, stretch out. Or, like the white flowers, quietly, will be heavy petals, bloom.

And life, many times, is the need for us to slow down the pace. Although you can choose a colorful drink, drink down, but more can moisten the soul, is that day on the street, drizzle. They may take a long time, but when the rain stops, it pours out the most fertile soil for growth.

I am willing to abandon the drink in the busy and noisy, make a pot of kung fu tea, slowly product, until the evening to knock on my doors and Windows.

To him, I was just a passer-by, had eaten his churros a few times, said some irrelevant words, had fingers touch, and that was also because of the need to pay. To me, he is an imprint on the soul that can no longer be erased.

At that time, because of a long crush of people, I asked the company for a leave, thousands of miles to fly to Beijing, trying to use this way, move the man's heart, let him know all my entanglement, just because of deep love. The first time he arrived in Beijing, he stayed in an apartment next to his stall. Every morning, after I get up and wash up, I will go to the roadside stall and eat some breakfast. He is always the first to arrive and the last to leave. I never saw him look up at the roadside scenery, nor saw him like other stall owners, taste each other's breakfast. His face, always a smoky color, like a dim rag, in the corner, casually thrown, unless it is useful, no one will think of it. His hands, too, are always doing the action of kneading, cutting and flipping. Only when the customer automatically puts the money into the carton next to him after eating would he look up, smile humbly, then nod his head and say, "Go slow."

His churros, bright in color and juicy in the mouth, are famous in this area. Many people, eat once, will get up early around the bend, and come again. The vendors around have helpers, either wives, or children, or the elderly, but he is always a person, riding a tricycle, lonely to come and go. Only once did I see a little teenage girl come silently and stand next to him. His face immediately took on a rare color, like a grass suddenly met the warm sun. Delighted, he took a stool, sat the girl down, and asked her what she wanted to eat. The girl raised her eyelids lazily and said, Whatever. His eyes darted around the breakfast stalls, then quickly locked on the steaming chaos of the adjacent stalls.

He asked for a bowl of a very large amount of chaos, to the girl over, and simple smile, said, stuffing thin skin, very delicious. The girl did not have much reaction, buried herself in half a bowl, then dropped the chopsticks and turned to go. He urgently stopped the girl and said, take the money for tutoring classes, I am busy today and have no time to send it to you. The girl stopped, took a wad of greasy change in his hand, muttered something impatiently, and walked away.

The half bowl of cold chaos, he looked up many times, eyes, with a clear desire, until the stall owner next to, indifferent to come over, put the bowl away, he lost to re-focus on the busy work to go.

My secret crush, always on my passion, not interested. No matter how hard I try, the man's heart is like a piece of cold ice, touched, broken, is my own. A week of vacation, quickly passed, the day of the walk, I dragged the luggage, went to his stall, eat breakfast for the last time. It was already nine o 'clock, and only one or two customers were busy eating their breakfast. He sat behind the booth, in the spring wind sand, holding a steamed bun in his right hand, holding a salted vegetable in his left hand, eating with his head down. The churros in the basket were still hot, but he seemed to have no interest in them and did not look at them. That breakfast, because the chengguan came to rush, eat very hastily. As we left, he kept apologizing to me and saying, "Come back next time." I laughed, thinking, I don't know, will there be a next time.

A month later, I went to Beijing on a business trip, thinking of the person who could not bear to give up all the time, I privately stayed for one more day, thinking that no matter how to provoke the person to hate, I will go to see the last side, perhaps, this time, love will sympathize with me.

They usually live in an apartment close to the person's business. But go out in the morning, but did not find the sale of dough sticks stalls. Frustrated, I bought a bowl of Chaos and waited while eating, hoping to see his thin figure riding a tricycle. But he did not wait until the money was ready to go. Couldn't help but be curious and asked the woman selling chaos, where did he go? Women only light to me: dead, car accident. Surprised, I asked, when? The female number of change hands, slowly stopped, sighed, said, half a month ago one morning, I ate a bowl of chaos here, riding home, was hit by the oncoming truck out of ten meters; For more than a year, he was not willing to eat a bowl of chaos here, that day somehow, finally willing to spend money, want a bowl, it is also God's mercy, let him go before, can round a wish, poor his daughter, mother died early, and now, for her father to study there is no...

I stood on the streets of Beijing, where the wind and sand were raging, and did not move for a long time, until finally, my eyes were fascinated by the sand, and I tried my best to rub it, and tears finally flowed down.

Suddenly understand, what is the world, the most precious, instead of trying to pursue, it is better to keep all around. Even if it's just a bowl of chaotic temperatures.